Saturday, April 01, 2006

First pomodoro and garlic followed by
peppers - then,
in a string-of-events,
the room lit up with summered
scents of pasta and sauce: aromas
that filled nostrils, lingered sweetly
on my dress.

The gifts that grew in mother's garden;
pleasures I sampled with snips
of provolone.

She sat me down, taught me
tradition, prepared
with warm hands and love.

She pulled fresh flowers to cool
the evening: a touch of berry and vine,
spread linen, delicate, and called
us one by one.

We washed our faces in gratitude as
the sound of papa at the end of labor,
worn-out and empty, filled the door.

2 comments to Cher:

She Weevil said...

I'm glad you liked John's iris. Will come back and have a look at some of your poetry. I dabble a little myself.

Lost Days said...

Scent of memory fills perception,
as desire swells pore by pore,
a glimpse into the woman-child,
and my hardened world crumbles,
leaving only need to haunt me...


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